


Treasure Trap

by Kastaka



Category: Cambridge University Treasure Trap
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 06:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10781376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: Compiled CUTT fic from lrpdrabbles LJ





	1. Mirror

Thea:

She wondered vaguely whose bones had gone into this jewelled comb as she pulled it idly through her hair, straightening up in a pointless display of vanity. It would all go everywhere as soon as she was back out on deck anyway, however much she tried to tie it back and keep it tame.

The sea air was doing her good, she decided, bringing a ruddy health to her cheeks, the rolling decks bringing a pleasingly loose gait to her gloriously restored limbs. As she put her hair back and revelled in her freedom, she nodded appreciatively. The Lady Bast had done well by her, especially given that she would never be one of hers...

Mithril:

She catches a glimpse of her face in the mirror as she passes, the profile of her face in the moonlight filtering through the window set high in the wall. It is clean, and smooth, and there is not enough blood. Where is all the blood?

That is not her real face, that clear-skinned and bright-eyed creature that glances uncritically in the mirror. Her real face is covered - feathers caked in blood, sewn through the skin, pierced through her eyebrows - her real face is gone, for the moment, perhaps forever.


	2. Mithril: Final Gift

The demon was free. The Humacti had her honourable death. The Justicar was avenged. The mana was given to the people who wanted to put the world to rights.

There was nothing left.

This time, nobody was going to stop her. This time, nobody was going to get in her way.

She found another bauble by the door. No. It wasn't going to distract her. She scooped it up and carried it with her. A present for whoever found her, perhaps. A final gift for their concern. A fitting marker of her passing. One last helpful act, thrown to the winds of chance.

Past the lightning-scarred, dagger-pocked walls. Through the once-warded gap with the stone facing wrecked on one side. And down into the pit which belched fire when you walked across it. Twice should do it. She walked resolutely into the centre of the pit.

Nothing. Not a spark. She paced up and down a little. She had seen this bit discorporate the demon. She knew it was here. She jumped up and down on the relevant spot. Nothing. She covered the whole area, backwards and forwards. Nothing.

"If that's how you're going to play it, Soloman," she said, or thought, as it made little difference here alone, "I guess I will have to see it through to the end."

She checked her daggers and walked out of the door as if nothing had happened.


	3. Therian: The Only Problem

The only problem with studying magic was the elves.

He could see them skipping a beat, translating down for the humans in the class. "Only a century," one chuckled, "and you might have grasped the basics!"

Well, he'd already had a fifth of his century, if indeed he was going to get that far, which seemed unlikely. But he knew that humans did learn to grasp the basics of magic, and sometimes far beyond. Why, wasn't the High Mage himself a human? He couldn't be more than forty-something, either.

And it wasn't as if he wanted to do some kind of esoteric research magic that would take forever to rise to the top of. Just a bit of useful magic for getting a better commission in the Wessex Army, that was all he was after.

Maybe if the elves could remember that from time to time, he might get out of here before he was old and creaking, and too past it to go into active service...

\----

Sometimes he feels uncomfortable, here in the Brotherhood of Magic. Most of the time it's easy to forget that Grantabrugge is not part of Wessex, but sometimes he'll look at a five shilling note or watch a suspiciously dressed gentleman making his way to the Temple of Sordan and Vivamort, and think to himself, this isn't home any more.

It's not far to the border. It's not that anyone would give him any hassle for planning to join the Wessex Army, or his royalist views, or even his slightly limp-wristed quasi-Humacti sense of honour. But it isn't home any more. It isn't one of the places which his parents, his siblings, are fighting to protect and expand any more.

And he can't help but wonder - when are they going to march down this street, and take back this impudent land in their midst, this insult to their king's soverignity?


	4. The Land of the Blind

"I'll be out hunting first thing in the morning, ma'am."

She has lost track of the days, lost track of the nights. Here, as above, they all run into one - but there, there were seasons. Here, there is just the endless game of light and dark, the flash of grey through the trees, the blue lights and the slashing claws that bite through her thin leathers. She has lost track of the scars, lost track of the blood.

She loves and hates the village. There is food and light and shelter here, but they talk so loudly and they don't seem to understand. There is something new today. Eyeless in the eating hall, and no-one keeping an eye on them. One of them has the temerity to tell her that he is keeping her single eye on her. She will not stop watching them. She loves the village. 

She hates the village. She needs to sleep. She will be away by first light, away through the trees, into the uncertain grey dawn. The Resistance make their speeches - the Resistance ask for victims - the Resistance are no better than the demons, they are all the same thing, they are all just obstacles. You have to spot the danger and work your way around; you have to not stand in front of the sharks, grey or otherwise...

She sleeps; she wakes; she leaves. Everything changes. The patrols are heavier; she hears them killing, she smells the blood on their swords, and she hides and she hides and she runs; the patrols are looking for paladins. Nothing good can come from that word; nothing good could ever come from that word. She sleeps in the open, she cannot get back to the village - the way is too dangerous.

There is blood and there is fear on the air; she must get back to the Near Fields, she is not good enough to live all her life out here, as clear as the air and as quiet as the trees are. The trails have taken her far; at nightfall she finds it, the ruined village, the charred remains. She sits by the embers, dazed at the fire-smell, at the desertion, at the change. 

Nothing good could ever come of it. Nothing good came of it. She had better be good enough, then. This is a bad place now, a cursed place, a dangerous place. She moves. She keeps moving. She hides from demons and humans alike.

She is sleeping fitfully beneath a tangle of undergrowth when it happens. For a moment there is a dislocation, a lostness, a thing she cannot describe; it is almost like when they threw her through the portal, but not quite, and there is no portal here.

Then there is a new patch of ground, and there are people everywhere, and she is running.

\---- 

That was trouble.

Don't like trouble. Trouble comes with beatings; long walks back; shouting and yelling; worst, trouble comes with them all thinking they're better than me.

That's why I take orders. More you're in charge, more you get it wrong, more it's your fault. Looks like it's gonna be all of our faults this time. Sporeclouds and fireballs. Should've killed them all the first time.

What stupid fucking villagers blind their own captives anyway? Should've noticed. Shouldn't have fallen for it. Can't think straight while wearing those meat sacks, let alone walk straight, smell straight, kick 'em right...

And then we went again and we were so godsdamn stupid again. One of 'em took off; can't even keep a fucking line against a bunch of cowering fucking villagers. One of 'em dead as an example, sure, but then we gave up and burnt the fucking place, warning all the others to fuck off into the bushes and be a right bastard to track down when we need to kill 'em.

Dunno if I even believe the ones what ran off and came back whining about paladins. Probably just lost the villager and too embarrassed to come clean.

Now there's just one left and she's mewling like a sack of whiteys; and guess who gets the shit job again, yeah, that's me. An' now I'd actually like to be wearing a meatsack - no chance of really horrible shit happening if it ain't even my body - I've gotta show up in person.

Least she can walk again; carrying her'd be even more of a bind, but she seems to keep up okay even on that mangled leg. I bring her in, tell everyone to fuck off; now that's one fucking perk, mention the boss and everyone melts in compliance, if only I had some good fucking news for him.

I could give 'im a report of what I 'eard, but then it'd be my fault again. So I just stands and holds the chain while he does his dance for the crowd, then hands her over and skedaddles out there right quick. Ain't no good hanging around in that company.

Got away with it. Phew. Still just a grunt in the pecking order, and there's a lot of pecking to go round, but finally orders come down - always orders - that we should pack up and get off this sinking rock before more bad stuff happens.

Gods am I ever happy to comply. Never liked this place - maybe the next hole that the boss picks will have less creepy shit and more smashing to get on with!

\---- 

feeding time

we-are-one weave through darkness drag in shadows dance and weave with the little ones the little ones sing we sing we sing with the little ones we-are-one we lurk in shadows we wait we wait we dance and sing we wait we follow

we follow we follow we dance and follow and noises and life and movement and we stalk and we follow and we sway in their faces and we LEAP

WE SLASH AND WE SLASH AND WE DART AND WE JUMP AND WE RUN AND WE RUN AND WE RUN INTO DARKNESS

we have blood on our claws we are not sated too many too loud too fast

we-are-one we weave through the darkness we weave through the nettles we dance for the others, dance dance dance and follow, dance dance dance and cluster, dance dance

"Here, little wisp-wisp-wisp!"

we dance and we flutter and we hum and we dance and we LEAP

she is not ready and she falls and we feed and we feed and we feed and she is fresh delicious intoxicating lovely and oh no oh no danger danger smells of danger smells of the bad ones smells of pain we leave her reluctantly we back off we sprint sing dance dart into the night

we stalk and we stalk and we dance and we whistle and we follow and we whistle and we follow the little ones and they call and we call and they call and we call

but they dare the open we do not dare the open we are shadows we are darkness we-are-one we cannot dance in the open we cannot dance in the light we cannot dance with our claws with the real dance we dance in the shadows with our dancing dancing dancing

they come near and we tense we tense they leave away there are too many they are in the open the little ones dance dance we dance in shadows they dance in light and dance dance well dance forwards and back and we dance and we dance

they come near and they smell so good and they are coming nearer and nearer and crooning that song and they have one of the little ones and they chase one of the little ones and they chase and they chase over into the shadows

there are many and we-are-one and we cower and cower and LEAP

we are sinking our claws into their delicious flesh and we are circling and dancing and weaving and we are in their face and their eyes and they are confused but they are many and they are sharp and they cut into us they cut and they cut and our claws lie still and they cut and we - and I - and we hover - and I hover - and there is no more we-are-one

there is no more we-are-one, they are cutting and they are taking the stones and we - and I - and we flutter weakly and make one last whistle and it is too late and they watch and they GRAB

wink out. gone. dead.

\---- 

Listen.

(the world around you is a susurrus of grasses, but you can build up a picture; your world expands, slowly, until you can hear the shuffling of feet)

They are blind too.

(you back away so quietly, so quietly. empty air. before they took your eyes, you hadn't realised how the trees cast shadows in the sound of the wind)

They can smell you, they said.

(it is still there, it is getting closer, why are you running? arms wave like antennae; the edge of the path stings; you know there is no escape, no rescue, no happy ending)

The claws draw lightly down your back.

(unbidden noise, stumble faster, stumble away, it is slow but inexorable and it is coming and it is coming and it is coming and it is coming and it is coming)

The solitary tree looms out of the darkness.

(sudden pain; fireworks in red and black; what is left of your vision is trying to comprehend the world you have run into, a world where there is no sense, only darkness)

They have not caught you; they have not caught you.

(the rough bark to one side and you keep on moving into the echoes because ahead there are the sound of voices, real voices, too far to hear but voices, not moans of pain or fear)

If you could see... but you cannot. There are two of them.

(catch yourself and fall heavily; there is another to the side, there is another and it tears into you, tears into you and you whimper and claw at the ground, and the voices continue unconcerned; the voices continue as you fade)

They argue over your flesh, but you are too far gone to hear them.

\---- 

maybe

maybe if you do it right

maybe if you please them

maybe if you amuse them enough

you are a luxury, there is nothing you can do

there is nothing you can do without your eyes that is useful

yet you are fed and you are healed over and over

maybe you amuse them enough

maybe you please them

follow the voices follow the footsteps follow the demands

you caper and you skip and you bend yourself around and you do the pointless things

you are forgotten and it is best of all

you are led by gentle hands

you hear his screams and they tell you to silence him

you cover his mouth and you support his body

you hold him and you hold him

the blood drips into your rags

"Maybe he prefers death to this."

"I can arrange that if you want."

"No, not yet, not now."

you are led by gentle hands

you sit and you listen

maybe

you obey you obey you sweep the ground

you find nothing

you listen

maybe if you please them you will live another day

maybe if you amuse them you can sit a while

maybe there is a right way to do it

maybe there is

"Shoot her until she's dead."

maybe?


End file.
